I have a few alter-egos that have made their debut over the past number of years. When I scrapbook, Martha Stewart on steroids shows up. While cooking, you're likely to see Rachel Ray on speed and when wanting to feel loved and chosen, I often look like Donald Rumsfeld who stood before the Defense Budget Committee. Last night and again this morning, my favorite schitzo-side made an appearance...Homegirl from the Hood. Ahhh, yes. This is when I forget that I'm a white woman with two left feet and somehow am transformed to a Broadway Chorus Line dancer with an ability to breakdance. Close your mouth from the horror of this thought. And try not to laugh to hard the next time you see me.
Last night while at choir rehearsal, during this particular soulful song, we (as in 300 white folk with little rhythmic abilities) have to do this step-touch thing. Mind you, one must step-touch to a beat, sing the right words and pray to the dear Lord that you remember what part you sing. I'm sure some of you must be asking, how hard can that be? Trust me, it's more complicated than it seems. So, in good Lisa fashion, I call upon my days as a bright six year old who thought she was destined to be a ballerina for the next Nutcracker performance. Another fine example of where my best thinking takes me. Anyway, so let me set the scene. This grooving song plays on, 300 people must step and touch all in unison and keep from tossing our cookies from the shaking of the risers. The director gives his post, the drums and piano set the beat...and the blonde white girl transforms herself to Homegirl from the Hood. I'm sure looking onto the stage from the audience, one might think I was having body convulsions just like Elaine did on Seinfeld. I'm oblivious to my actual state. As I continue onward, ever thinking that we've pulled it off (especially me), the wave of nausea begins to rise. Dear me. I must hold my nose while covering my mouth to keep back the tide. This is hard to do when your arms are flailing about, continuing to hit the lovely man standing next to me in the butt (sorry Gale, more than likely, this will repeat itself through our final performance). I endure. Step-touching away, and eventually all is well. Homegirl retired for the evening - only to rise again this morning.
I arrived at the library this morning to do a few things. I forget that Wednesday mornings is children's story time and activity hour. I poke my head in and the volunteer lurches at me like a cat in heat. He must have seen Homegirl, or was just terribly pressed to find a matronly figure to help out during the activity. An aha moment for me: I have transformed into "matronly." cornered at this point with nowhere to run, I oblige. Then he tells me that the kids will be dancing to a Paula Abdul video with a few minutes at the end for their own "interpretive dance." Still recovering from last night's motion sickness, I begin practicing holding my nose shut to keep the spew from, well, spewwing out. Mr. Tom announces that a new helper has arrived and I wave like a politician staring at a beauty queen. As the VHS is pushed in, Paula Abdul bounces onto the screen. Tom whispers to me that there is one little darling who must be watched closely. Last month, her interpretive dance to Amy Grant's Rocking Around the Christmas Tree, went from innocent to a cartoonishly lewd striptease very quickly. I think to myself "I've danced in my skivs plenty of times to that...what's so wrong with jamming to Amy?" Another example of fine thinking. With my eyes perched to this little girl, along with the other kids, some of whom look like placid little cadavers slinking from their little tyke chairs, I begin the step touch movement. Paula busts out a little James Brown and suddenly we're all little Soul Train divas and soul-gods. I've decided by the way, that wiggling is good for the soul. All of us seem to shine when we wiggle a little. I was a flood lamp at this point if shining is what happens when dancing. So, the break dancing begins and this little girl with Down Syndrome asks me if I'd do a cartwheel with her. Marylou Renton I am not, but to her I must look like a human pretzel. Suddenly, panic sets in. It's the same kind of panic I have when I can't fit into my pants and I get on the scale to see the damage. The 3/10's of a pound I've gained must be stuffed back down with a brownie. I must press on, I must give this child her dream of me doing a cartwheel (can you sense my Scarlet O'Hara alter-go coming out?). Now mind you, my version of a cartwheel resembles a duck with it's butt in the air, head in the water hoping for a little krill to come along. This coupled with a rocking motion and my hands firmly planted on the ground. Duck butt and all, I give it my best shot. I hear only a few snickers coming from the others. I'm the only adult in the center of the room attempting to refine her gymnatic skills.
I look around the room and see kids of all different shapes and sizes. Some are cute, others more homely. A few can actually dance, while the rest of us lurch and fall, jump and crash, and gyrate our hips in a very Brittaney Spears way. It occurs to me that the human desire to be something other than ordinary sets in at a young age. Somewhere along the way, we lose sight of laughter. Suddenly, being silly is transported from innocent to ghastly. Like Donald Rumsfeld, we just want to be loved and chosen. A great truth in life hits me: all of us are loved and chosen, even Dick Cheney and Osama Bin Laden. Oh, that God loves us all, simply because God loves.
Mr. Tom decides to do a lesson on the Electric Slide. Do you remember this little dance, often found at bars - where generally the participants have to be gorked out of their heads to do it. Been there. Got the T-shirt. Little ensembles of children dive right in. They all seem to master the elusive and ever complicated pivot. I nearly tear my ACL. Children are more limber, right? After instruction on where to put your foot and how to turn, I cheat and just turn. My childhood races before me again - trying and striking out at basketball, ballet, geometry, and square dancing. Homegirl has a bruised ego that toddlers look better doing the Electric Slide. Finally, we all fall to the floor laughing. I'm in good company when I see the four-year old boy next to me laughing so hard he's holding his goods to keep from peeing everywhere. Another been there. Didn't get the T-shirt, just an overwhelming desire to invest in big-girl diapers. The kids are magnificent in their joy, their clumsiness, and their acceptance of a 30 year old homegirl-wannabe. The girl with Down Syndrome says that she liked the helper. "She does cartwheels and laughs a lot." The very essence of how I wish to be remembered in life is uttered. Will my obituary someday read "Lisa tried to help. She danced even when she looked silly and did cartwheels through life."
Homegirl, may you rave forever.
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